Chamomile
by keepcalmsmile
Summary: Sometimes John would wander into her kitchen after a particularly bad day, but that was alright; she always knew what to do. Tonight, however, she had no idea...because the man in her kitchen was not John. More to the point, he was dead.


Chamomile

**A/N Enjoy!**

* * *

The grease simply refused to come out of the pan. Mrs. Hudson huffed in frustration and pressed her Brillo pad a little harder into the greasy mass. Really, it might be worth it to throw it out…

And now the door was creaking again. She really needed to get someone to fix that latch.

She sighed, debating whether it was worth the effort to go and shut the door. Probably not.

Wait a moment. Were those footsteps?

"John?" she asked hesitantly. Sometimes he stopped in when he returned to the flat after a late night. Afterwards, he always said it was to check on her, but he never said anything. He would simply sit at her small kitchen table, and she would make two cups of tea, and they would sit together in silence until she would finally start nodding off, and John would apologize sheepishly and help her to bed before he trudged up to his own, empty flat.

Although, he had not wandered into her kitchen for months now, not since he met Mary…

Oh dear, she hoped they had not had a falling out. She did not want to think what John would be like then.

She turned slowly, bracing herself to find a lost and distraught man who was too proud to ask for help, but that was all right; she always knew what to do anyway.

"Joh…" she began, but the word ended in a strangled cry.

There was a man there: a lost and distraught man who was too proud to ask for help, but it was not all right; she had no idea what to do.

Because this man was dead.

Very dead.

He was standing in her kitchen.

Then again, the room was also spinning and flipping on itself in ways that she was quite certain it should not.

Perhaps she was dying, and Sherlock was the one chosen to lead her on…

Oh dear, what had she done that was terrible enough to deserve _that_?

Her arm was hurting now. Why was that? Oh, right, Sherlock the ghost had grabbed onto it to keep her from falling, and now he was guiding her to the nearest chair and asking…not demanding…the ghost was _asking_ if she was all right.

Except she was fairly certain ghosts could not touch people.

That meant…

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" she screamed at the top of her lungs (and she could be much louder than most people thought).

Then she slapped him, full across the faces, as hard as she could (which was also much harder than most people would have believed).

Surprisingly, Sherlock did not object or move away or catch her wrist before it made contact. He did not scowl at the thought he might have a bruise in the morning or chastise her for acting so illogically.

Instead, he _smiled_. "Now I know you are all right."

"_Sherlock_!" and it took every ounce of the landlady's considerable self-control to not slap him again. She wondered why she bothered to restrain herself: "I am _not_ all right!"

The smile was gone, replaced with a mixture of a grimace and a frown that, despite her fury (and she was certain she had never felt so utterly livid in her entire life…except when she found out about her husband) broke her heart when she saw the _pain_ there: the rawness, the vulnerability of it.

This was wrong. Sherlock did not show pain. He did not allow himself to be vulnerable. Even when she had first met him, when he was still too weak from the pains of withdrawal to change out of the pajamas Lestrade had lent him, even then, he did not allow anyone to see anything like this. Sherlock glanced away, staring pointedly at random spot on the floor.

Sherlock never broke eye contact.

Oh dear, what had this boy endured?

She grasped his hands; the gesture surprised him enough to make him look back at her, "What happened?" she asked quietly. The rage was still there, white and fiery hot and ready to force itself to the surface at any moment, but to see the look on Sherlock's face, the type of look that Sherlock should never have…it was more disconcerting than seeing the dead walk. Literally.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before a sound came out, "There…"

"Stop."

He frowned at her, confused, "But…"

"No," Mrs. Hudson said firmly, "Not now." Because those few moments of hesitation were enough for her to remember the man who should be hearing them first, the name she should have thought of more than ever when she first seen the resurrected Sherlock.

_John._

He did not know yet, she was sure of that. Otherwise he would be here too, or would have warned her, or, at the very least, Sherlock would already have a bruise. No, Sherlock had not told him yet, and though it was shocking, in a way it did not surprise Mrs. Hudson at all, after seeing this new Sherlock…

This new Sherlock who was very afraid.

"Go to him," Mrs. Hudson ordered in a voice that made Sherlock flinch back in surprise. That was too bad, "Go to him now. He's out to dinner, but I can give you the address."

"I know it." Sherlock replied.

"Then why aren't you there?"

Sherlock frowned, "You wanted me to explain myself."

He would not distract her that easily: "You know you need to explain it to him first."

"A restaurant is hardly the place…"

"Do you think there will ever be a right place, or a right time?" Mrs. Hudson demanded, "You need to go. _Now._"

"It will not work…he will not want to…" Sherlock's voice trailed off.

Ah, the heart of the matter. "He will not take well," she admitted, "But you were the most important person in the world to him, and he still is the most important person in the world to you. No matter what he does or how he takes it, you owe him this…and every second counts."

He took a step back, uncertainty radiating off his very being.

Sherlock Holmes, uncertain? What _happened_?

She did not let her pity get the best of her; if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that John Watson needed to know that is best friend was still alive, and he needed to know now…no matter how much it hurt them both at first. "Go," she commanded.

Sherlock nodded and began walking slowly towards the door, his gait heavy like that of a far older man.

Mrs. Hudson frowned: that dreadful, wonderful, cruel, vulnerable boy, "Sherlock," she said, more softly this time.

Sherlock stopped and glanced back, that same, disconcerting mask of uncertainty etched in his features.

"I'll be waiting here. Don't think you got out of having to talk to _me_ too, young man!"

Sherlock smiled, and while it was still broken, it was a smile just the same. "Of course," and without another word, he ventured into the night.

He returned a little over an hour later. She was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting as his familiar footsteps echoed down the hall. Familiar but not…Sherlock did not walk that slowly. She did not have to see the slouch in his shoulders, the hurt in his eyes, or the dried blood under his nose to guess how it had gone.

She stood as he entered and began pouring the boiling water she had waiting on the stove into two cups. He needed time to collect himself and recover what remained of his pride. When she turned around a few minutes later balancing two steaming cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on a tray, Sherlock seemed nearly his usual, emotionless self.

Then again, she knew he had never been emotionless.

"Chamomile," he drawled, accepting the cup he handed them. He raised an eyebrow, "I do not find sentimental gestures comforting, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course not dear," Mrs. Hudson agreed.

Sherlock nodded and sipped his tea, closing his eyes for a moment as the hot liquid slid down his throat.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. She always knew when her boys were lying.

They sipped in silence; Sherlock's eyes constantly flitted frantically around the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson wondered if he was memorizing every minute change in décor or looking for signs of danger. Probably both. She peered carefully at him. He was, if possible, thinner than before, emaciated even, black shadows rested beneath his eyes and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin. He gripped his cup so tightly with both his hands that his knuckles were an even brighter white than the rest of his skin…as if he was trying to keep his hands from shaking.

One thing was certain; if John had noticed all this, he would be here.

"Chamomile," Sherlock repeated, finally breaking the silence. "That's how I began, you know, with chamomile tea." He met her gaze for half a second before resuming his frantic surveillance of the tiny kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson did know. Of course she did.

Unlike John, her first glimpse of Sherlock was not of a mad and dapper genius in a tailored suit, but of crazed and self-destructive addict in a pair of Lestrade's old pajamas. Her lawyers had warned her that it looked dangerously like her husband might win his appeal, and in desperation, she had turned to the good Detective Inspector, whom she had known since he was a child, for assistance. A week later he had rung and said that he might have some new evidence for her, but that the man (she noticed that he did not use the word friend or colleague) who had unearthed it wanted to ask her a few questions first.

"I must warn you," he said when she had agreed without a hesitation, "This guy's young and brilliant, but he's a bit…crazed…not necessarily the most pleasant man to be around."

"Greg," she had chortled, "I'm married to a triple-murderer. I don't think there's much he can do to shock me."

She was wrong.

Then again, so was Greg. She had gone to the DI's house after Greg explained that the man, Mr. Holmes, was not well. It was obvious when she arrived that when Greg said "not well," he really meant that the twenty-five year old was an addict barely emerging from the worst stages of withdrawal. Sure enough, Sherlock had been at least as rude as Greg had implied, but what had shocked her was how _alone_ the poor boy was. Not alone in the sense that he felt he was inferior to everyone else, he clearly thought very well of himself, but alone in the sense that he was apart from the rest of the world, that he thought he was not human enough to care about anything or anyone, or that anyone could care about him. He knew he was brilliant, but he was equally certain there was no place for his genius.

No wonder he turned to the drugs. Mrs. Hudson doubted she had ever seen anyone so broken.

_Well_, she had thought, _he is certainly not allowed to believe those things anymore_, so she had interrupted him in the midst of his interrogation and firmly stated that he was ill and needed some tea. She made him chamomile.

He had demanded to know why she cared, why she bothered, and she had watched as his mind finally grasped the truth. What was it he liked to say…_When you rule out the impossible…_

She forced him to believe she cared.

He never touched the drugs again.

A week after her visit, Lestrade asked him to take a "quick look" at a crime scene.

He bought a suit.

She got him a coat to match.

Now here he was again, just as lost and broken and alone, alone in a way only Sherlock could be.

She made chamomile tea.

"My Mum made this for me, first time I menstruated," she said.

Sherlock did not look at her, but he did not object to her "ramblings," as he called them, either.

That itself was a sign.

"I made it for myself, night of my first kiss, my first night in University, first night after I got married, the night I lost my baby, the night my husband was sentenced, the night he was excecuted, the night I moved in here. Chamomile tea is good for beginnings."

She did not mention that she made chamomile tea for herself and John the night he jumped, and the night of the funeral.

"Dead men's lives are not supposed to begin again," Sherlock said drily, still glancing around the flat.

"Then it's good you aren't dead."

"Yes I am," Sherlock said bluntly, "In some ways, I'm more dead now than I would have been if I had just jumped off that roof."

"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said in a tone that brooked no argument, "Don't you _dare_ start thinking like that."

Sherlock's mouth tightened, but he did not reply.

They finished their tea in silence. Finally, Sherlock set his empty cup down, "I need to go."

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips: "Go where? You need to sleep, young man."

"That is why I need to go; I have a hotel room a few miles away," he tried to seem condescending, but really, he just sounded exhausted.

"Don't be silly, dear! No one's taken your bedroom!"

A dark shadow flitted across Sherlock's face before it was replaced by his usual passivity, "John wouldn't…" he hesitated, and started again, "I do not think that room can appropriately be considered mine any longer, but the hotel is quite comfortable."

_Comfortable, but not home_, Mrs. Hudson thought, but she knew it was no use arguing, "If you insist, but I expect you back first thing for breakfast."

"Of course," Sherlock said, a quiver of his old smile gracing his features. He stood and began making his way slowly to the door.

Very slowly.

Too slowly…even for someone as sad as he was.

Almost as if, it _hurt_ to walk.

He was out in the hallway now; Mrs. Hudson silently stood and followed.

No doubt about it, now that he was out of her sight, Sherlock was definitely favoring his left leg.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" she roared, "Unless you are hobbling over to a hospital, and I know you're not, get back here NOW!"

Sherlock froze. Then, slowly, he turned to face her, "Have you ever considered joining Scotland Yard?" he quipped, "You're far more observant than anyone on the force."

"Then you shouldn't have tried to hide it from me," she hissed, "No get up hear and let me take a look at it."

Scowling, Sherlock nevertheless hobbled (there was not point trying to disguise it now) back into the kitchen. "Now take off whatever you need to so I can see the wound," Mrs. Hudson commanded, "While I go fetch the First Aid kit."

She got John's, actually. Sherlock's eyes immediately fixed on the familiar box the moment she walked into the room.

How she hated his sad, distant expression.

Thoughts of her boys' shattered relationship, however, were driven out when she saw Sherlock's wound.

His coat, scarf, suit jacket, and shirt sat in a pile on one of the chairs; he was even thinner than she thought. He was muscular, yes, but his skin was stretched tightly over his ribs; clearly, he had barely eaten during the intervening years. However, even this was not as alarming as the angry blue, black, and green bruises running down his side.

Even these did not seem as dangerous as the hastily applied bandages that were covering a portion of the bruised area. She could see specks of red bleeding through the white cloth.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Knife wound," Sherlock muttered, "Day-and-a-half ago."

She crouched next to him and tenderly brushed the sides of the bandage with her fingertips. She felt Sherlock flinch at the contact, "How deep?"

He grunted.

It was answer enough. "Right," she said firmly, straightening up again, "You need someone to look at that."

"It will be fine," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"No it will _not_ be fine," Mrs. Hudson snapped, "That's still bleeding young man. There's a good chance of it getting infected and I'm certain it needs stitches. I am going to call John."

"NO!" Sherlock snarled. He tried to get to his feet, clearly intending to leave again, but Mrs. Hudson pushed him back down. "If you leave I'll call your brother and tell him how hurt you are, and _then_ see what kind of options you'll have!"

"You wouldn't," he hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Oh _wouldn't_ I," she retorted, "Someone's got to take care of you, Sherlock, since obviously you refuse to do it yourself!"

The glared at each other in heated silence for several moments before Mrs. Hudson finally said, "Fine. If you don't want John doing it, at least go to the hospital and let them…"

"NO!" but Sherlock's refusal was different this time. He was just as furious as when she had suggested John, but this time the fury coupled with something else…terror.

Sherlock had never _liked_ staying in hospitals, but he had always complained of boredom; he had never seemed _scared_ of the idea. What had changed?

The answer immediately presented itself; he could not stand the idea of a stranger, probably multiple strangers, touching him.

Oh dear.

She sighed, "Then John it is, I'm afraid."

"He won't."

It was heartbreaking how certain he seemed to be of this. "I'll talk to him," Mrs. Hudson said firmly, and don't you dare try to tell me not to."

Scowling, Sherlock finally said, "If he refuses, you let me take care of it myself."

"Fine," she lied easily. It did not matter; she had no doubt John would come. "I'm going to call him now, and if I come back and find you gone, I _will_ call Mycroft."

Still glowering, Sherlock finally nodded.

"Good. I'll be back in a minute. Do try to eat something, dear." Then, she left the kitchen, pulling her phone out of her apron pocket as she did so. She did not dial the number until she was safely in her bedroom closet, where even Sherlock would not be able to eavesdrop.

John would come; it did not mean she wanted Sherlock hearing what she would have to say to convince him.

"No, Mrs. Hudson," John's voice was tight with barely repressed fury.

She sighed, "I didn't even say anything, dear."

"You don't have to. Tell that heartless git that I don't want to hear what he has to say, and that _if_, and believe me, that's an enormous _if, _I ever want to see or speak to him again it will be on _my _terms!"

"John…"

"Oh, and tell him if I find any trace of him in my flat," Mrs. Hudson had to pull the phone a little away from her ear because of John's shouting, "there will be…"

"John!" she barked.

The doctor broke off mid-sentence. He always did when she used that voice.

Mrs. Hudson took a deep breathe, "Don't worry, John, he refused to sleep in his old room. He didn't even want me to call you."

For a long moment, the line was silent, "Look, Mrs. Hudson," John said, and he did not sound angry anymore, just confused and sad and so, so tired, "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but if we work this out, it's going to have to be when we…I…am ready."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes at the dark ceiling. It was juvenile, but no one was there to see, and John could be such an idiot sometimes…they both could. "Of course not, John," she said, "I know better than to think I can give you two relationship advice. I'm calling because Sherlock needs your medical expertise."

"There's no way I'm working on a case," John said, angry again.

"_Not_, for a case, John," she snapped, "_Sherlock_ is hurt."

"What happened?" John said sharply. Mrs. Hudson smiled. And John was trying to pretend that he did not care.

"A knife wound, apparently, a day-and-a-half ago. He's got a couple bandages on it…but…"

"Dammit Sherlock!" John roared. He fell silent for a couple seconds, clearly regaining his composure, "Has he gone to a hospital?" he finally asked.

"He refuses to."

"Well tell his royal pratness," John said coldly, "That he most certainly _will_ go to a hospital because he needs that treated, but I'm not going to let him use his wound as a way to try and manipulate me into feeling sorry for him…"

"For heaven's sake John!" Mrs. Hudson finally snapped, "Stop being obtuse and get over here!"

Another silence. He was probably trying to control his temper to keep from shouting again, "Mrs. Hudson…"

"Didn't you notice how thin he was? How pale and sick and tired he looked? Did you see his eyes? That is not the Sherlock Holmes you remember!"

"Believe me, I know it isn't," John hissed.

Mrs. Hudson withheld a growl of frustration with difficulty; John could be even more stubborn than Sherlock sometimes. "He's not refusing the hospital because he doesn't want to be bored or because he wants to regain your approval—he's certain he lost that—he's _scared_ to go John."

"Scared," John said disbelievingly, "Look, this is Sherlock, Mr. let's-keep-heads-in-the-fridge…he'd never be frightened by a hospital…"

"He would be frightened of having half-a-dozen strangers poke and prod and sedate him in a large building filled with thousands of strangers."

"It never bothered him before…_oh…" _John's voice trailed off. It was easy to imagine his look of comprehension and horror.

Mrs. Hudson nodded in satisfaction. _Finally_, he understood.

"I'm on my way."

Thankfully, the restaurant was only a twenty-minute walk away.

John made it in ten.

"You _idiot_," he said by way of greeting, still panting a little.

Sherlock looked up from the roll Mrs. Hudson had forced him to nibble on while they waited, "There was no need to run."

John closed his eyes for half a moment, "You know, I have taken the Hippocratic Oath," he said, clearly deciding to ignore Sherlock's last comment, "So I'm ethically bound to treat you…even if I'd rather hit you again."

"I suppose the two are not mutually exclusive," Sherlock drawled, but his eyes were flickering up and down John, alternatively bemused and ecstatic. John merely shook his head, walked to the sink to wash his hands, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, and strode over to Sherlock. "Are there any other wounds you're hiding from me?" he said as he carefully began pulling away the bandages.

Sherlock shook his head, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"You _idiot_," John repeated emphatically as he pulled away the last of the bandages, revealing a deep, angry gash that stretched from the side of Sherlock's rib to his hip. Blood still dribbled from the cut, "Couldn't you have given yourself at least a couple of days to heal?"

"No." Sherlock's eyes were still flicking uneasily around the room.

"Course not," John said sourly, "You never bothered taking care of yourself before. At least I know _something_ hasn't changed."

Frowning, Sherlock glanced down at John, "I suppose I was not clear enough, I meant I could not wait two more days, not when I had already waited three years."

"Waited for what?" John asked slowly.

"You know the answer to that," Sherlock sighed.

John did not seem to be able to think of a reply to this. Mrs. Hudson watched as he focused intently on threading his sterilized needle, blinking rapidly. _Good_ she thought, _Maybe their finally beginning to rebuild something_, because John needed Sherlock, just as much as he needed Mary. And Sherlock…Sherlock needed John more than ever.

"Looks like you match me, now," John finally said, clearly attempting to distract Sherlock as he began to stitch the wound together. It took her a moment to see what he was referring to. A thin, white scar ran diagonally down Sherlock's left shoulder; Mrs. Hudson had been too distracted to notice it before now.

"Only superficially," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "It is just a knife wound…hardly as traumatic as yours."

"Yes, I can tell," John said, "Met this guy a couple of times then?"

"I am not interested in exchanging war stories, John," Sherlock snapped, his eyes still flitting around the room.

John's mouth tightened, but not, Mrs. Hudson knew, in anger, "Right." His pained expression told her that he had noticed the same thing she had…Sherlock had referred to his experiences as 'war stories.' "Right," he finally repeated, "Well you need to stay in bed for a couple of days at least-don't think I can't hear the beginnings of that chest cold you're trying to hide from me—and I'll need to check the wound several times over the next few days, just to make sure you miraculously avoided an infection."

"I already have a hotel and everything," Sherlock said airily, though his eyes still flickered nervously around the room, "You should be proud."

"No hotel," John snapped…much more loudly, Mrs. Hudson was sure, than he intended.

Sherlock swiveled his head from what was at least his fifth inspection of the doorway and looked back down at John, "Why not?"

"Because I know you won't actually _sleep_ there, even if you say you will," John lied easily. Well, Mrs. Hudson supposed it was not technically a lie; it simply was not entirely the truth either.

"I refuse to stay with Mycroft," Sherlock said flatly.

"I'm not that much of an idiot," John replied waspishly. He sighed, "You'll have to stay here…for a couple nights…until we work this out."

Mrs. Hudson felt an insane urge to weep and laugh simultaneously. She knew when John said _this_ he was not referring to Sherlock's physical injuries, but something much deeper, much more sinister…but that also meant that John also knew that Sherlock was going to be there for much longer than a couple days.

Sherlock was x-raying John with his eyes now; he had clearly not anticipated this, "So you are not…"

"Oh believe me, I _am_, Sherlock. I have never been half so furious with anyone in my entire life…and after I lived with you for eighteen months, I did not think that was possible, but Hippocratic Oath, remember?"

"Yes," Sherlock frowned. Mrs. Hudson could practically see his mind whirling to figure out what he was missing.

Ahh, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in understanding. She sighed; it was foolish to think he would not figure out that they knew, though she doubted he accepted the diagnosis himself.

John, however, missed the moment of revelation: he was tying of the last of Sherlock's stiches. "Alright," he said finally, "Now finish that roll while Mrs. Hudson and I get the bed ready…"

"Oh I already took care of it dear," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully, "Sherlock, dear, go straight up to bed, but bring that roll with you…your weight is really not healthy."

She smiled at the John and Sherlock's dual scowls: John because she had known that he would force Sherlock to stay, Sherlock because he hated being mothered. Too bad for both of them.

"_Now_," she said, "I know you two are used to being up at all hours, but some people have reached a time in life when the really do need some sleep."

This propelled them both two action, as she knew it would. John disposed of his gloves and the needle, and Sherlock stood and gathered up his discarded clothing.

"The roll, dear," she reminded him blithely.

Sherlock scowled, but it lacked any real venom. Then he grabbed the roll and silently followed John up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily, filled the kettle, and placed it on the stove. Those dear boys, smart as she knew they were, really were idiots if they thought she was sleeping that night. Instead, she simply sat, refilled the kettle each time too much of the water evaporated, and waited.

She had not known exactly what she was waiting for, but she recognized it the moment she heard it, two hours after her boys had gone upstairs.

"JOHN!" Sherlock half-screamed, half-cried, his deep voice carrying easily through the small house.

The sound was savage. It was heart-broken. It was terrified. It was painfully vulnerable.

It was a sound Sherlock Holmes would only make in his sleep.

Sighing again, Mrs. Hudson stood and began fixing three cups tea just as she heard a loud thump and John's furious roar, "SHERLOCK!" _thump _"HOLMES!" _thump._

Mrs. Hudson placed the steaming cups of tea of the tray and carried them up the stairs, pushing the slightly ajar door to 221b open with her foot.

John was still pounding desperately, uselessly, on Sherlock's bedroom door, a constant stream of curses that were too colorful to come from anywhere but the army exploding from his mouth. "John," she said quietly.

The curses stopped. Slowly, John turned to face her, "He locked the door, that git _locked_ the door. He _knew_ this was going to happen, so he shut me out on purpose…_again._

"Of course he did, dear."

"You know what, you right," John fumed, "You're absolutely right! I don't know why I bother, because _he's_ Sherlock Holmes and being alone protects him!"

"You know that's not true," Mrs. Hudson chided, "and you know he knows that's not true. He does think, however, that being alone protects _you_."

John's scowl deepened, "Right, because a sniper's going to shoot me if I go in there."

"Of course not, but if you could go in there, you wouldn't get any sleep tonight."

"Any chance I had of a good night's sleep vanished the moment I saw him in that restaurant," John growled.

"Of course it did," Mrs. Hudson agreed, "But Sherlock doesn't think that, so he tried to protect you."

John's face grew even darker, but he did not argue, "He's worse than Mycroft," he finally spat.

"Quite," Mrs. Hudson agreed, "Now sit down, John."

"I can't," John's face suddenly went very pale, "He's having a nightmare, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered, "He's having a nightmare and he's jumpy and nervous and constantly searching for enemies and he has that _look_ in his eyes. I know that look, Mrs. Hudson."

"I know you do," she sighed. John had worn that look before he moved in, after all, "Which is why you need to sit down, and have a cup of tea."

He hesitated, but finally sat in his familiar armchair. Mrs. Hudson sat beside him, set the tray on the table, and handed him his cup. John accepted it, but did not drink, "How did I not see it before?" he finally asked.

"John," she half-laughed, half-sighed, "Your dead best friend had literally just walked back into your life, you can't expect to have noticed something he was trying to hide from you."

"Is he still my best friend?" John whispered. He was staring at the ground now, and he had not touched his tea.

"Don't be silly, dear," she chided.

"I've never been more serious in my life, Mrs. Hudson," John looked up sharply, "He walked into that restaurant and he seemed exactly, _exactly _the same: face, suit, hair, everything. It was as if he had been gone for an hour, not years, as if he was just interrupting another dead-end first date, not barging in on my fiancé and I's anniversary, and I was certain he was going to open his mouth and call me back to Baker Street because we were in the middle of a case and there was no time to waste. And you know what? For that one instant I was ready to get up and follow him, just like I always did!"

She laid a hand on his knee, "Is that really so bad, dear?"

"Yes!" John growled, "Because that John Watson is dead! John Watson the soldier died the moment the bullet hit his shoulder, John Watson the PTSD sufferer died the moment he let a mad detective borrow his phone, and John Watson the blogger and best friend of the best and smartest man in London died the moment that friend's body hit the pavement." He closed his eyes against the memory, and it was a long moment before he was able to continue, "I miss that John Watson. I miss that John Watson almost as much as I miss Sherlock Holmes."

He opened his eyes and finally looked at her, "Another John Watson died today, Mrs. Hudson, and I don't know what comes next. What about _Mary_?"

She cocked an eyebrow, "What about her? She loves you. You love her. What else is there to say?"

"Life with Sherlock Holmes is not exactly conducive to long-term relationships," John said wryly, "And much as he may deserve it, I can't abandon him, not after tonight, but I cannot, _cannot_ lose Mary."

Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Like you said, John, that was before, this is now. You are not the same John Watson, and he is not the same Sherlock Holmes. You will have to build something new." She hesitated, "But that does not mean it cannot be something even better than what you had before…don't you agree Sherlock?"

She shifted her body to get a better view of Sherlock's door. Sure enough, it swung open, revealing a pale and mildly shocked Sherlock in his pajamas and bathrobe. His disheveled hair and sweat-drenched shirt bore testament to restlessness of his brief sleep, "How did you know?" he asked stiffly.

"John was cursing and pounding loud enough to wake an elephant, dear," she chided, "And you didn't make any more noises."

Sherlock grimaced, perhaps at what he perceived as a lapse in judgment on his part, and glanced warily at John.

The doctor merely sighed, "It's not possible to be angrier with you than I already am. You should have just come in."

"You would not have been nearly so forthcoming," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, some of his old arrogance seeping into his voice. He limped across the room and seated himself in a chair facing John and Mrs. Hudson on the couch. He glanced at the cups on the coffee table, "You should drink your tea before it gets too cold."

John scowled, "I'm not much in the mood, to be honest."

"She made it for you—made it for the three of us," Sherlock amended. "It's impolite not to."

"And you are absolutely the last person with _any_ right to talk about politeness," John growled, but he took the cup anyway, "You'd better drink yours too."

Sherlock nodded and lifted his own cup. Mrs. Hudson followed suit, shooting Sherlock a knowing smile. He ignored her, but that was all right; she knew he would, but she also knew what he was trying to do.

Sherlock sipped from his cup and Mrs. Hudson and John followed suit. The doctor blinked in surprise and set the cup back down in its saucer, "It's chamomile," he said, looking from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson, the memory of when she had last made it for him, the night of the funeral, clearly fresh in his mind.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "I have it on excellent authority that chamomile tea is good for beginnings."

John looked slowly from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson and back again, a strange, half-surprised, half-deliberating frown creasing his features.

"Yes," he said finally, "Yes, it is."

Then he smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled back. Neither of their smiles were quite like their old ones; Mrs. Hudson knew that they never would be.

But that was alright, because chamomile tea was good for beginnings.

The beginnings of something better.

* * *

**A/N I've read one or two return fics where Sherlock is suffering from PTSD, which I thought was a really interesting idea to play with, and I think that Mrs. Hudson would instinctively know how to handle that situation...because she is awesome :-)**

**The full account of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's first meeting that is referenced in this story is in my other work _Of Palaces and Memories_, chapter 6.2.**

**I would love love love to hear your thoughts and/or criticisms! Thank you for reading! **


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